Culinary Endeavors with Astronomical Complications
by shadowsontherun
Summary: Clint and Natasha are stuck on base after Natasha landed them on disciplinary probation (long story - literally 650K ). Since they're grounded stateside for longer then a few days for the first time (ever) they actually have the time to try out the weird to interesting foods that New York has to offer. With varying results. Clintasha. (IDY universe) Free of angst I promise.


**Culinary endeavors with astronomical complications **

**A/N: Just a **_**little**_** bit of Clintasha relief from current IDY angst - with a missing scene from IDY.**

***Somewhere between chapter 120-121 time gap. **

**It's honestly a few chapters of pointless fluff of assassins driving each other insane off duty in odd but amusing ways. **

**NOTE: I'M SO SORRY THE FIRST TIME I POSTED WAS THE UNEDITED CHAPTER! I HAVE REPOSTED.  
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**Chapter 1**

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Stupid juniors. Stupid Coulson. Stupid Fury. Stupid SHIELD," a dark and threatening voice muttered menacingly under her breath as she continued to take out her frustration on the couch instead of any of the idiots at SHIELD who have been on her case over the last few days stuck on base. She was _this_ close to being frighteningly pissed off enough to strangle any one of them. Agent, handler, Director - she really didn't care what their rank was - she had enough pestering to last a lifetime. If she was just left _alone_ to cool down she might refrain from bodily harm or prevent permanent injury.

There was only one man on her '_permanently want to strangle'_ list after all. He willingly carved his own little corner on that list.

And he still stuck around afterwards too.

"Should I fear for your brain cells?" an unfortunately very familiar voice said from behind the self-harm inflicting Russian banging her head against their ugly green couch's arm rest with frightening efficiency. If she wanted to knock herself out - she was on the right track to accomplishing that unpleasant goal.

"At least I _have_ brain cells," Natasha muttered under her breath as she reluctantly stopped with the one way ticket to unconscious-ville actions and lied bonelessly sprawled out on her stomach across the entire length of the couch. She promptly grabbed a puffy couch pillow off the floor and buried her face in the fluff in a clear message that she didn't _want_ his company right now.

Too bad for her that she knew he would force his presence on her when she wanted him around or not. It's not like she had many friends to hang out with or places to go in New York. If Clint didn't know without a shadow of a doubt that she would kick his ass he might have cracked a joke about how they were practically attached to the hip as they easily slid from instructors, partners, agents and roommates to bickering friends to an unmentionable status she refused to label.

He didn't mention anything he was thinking about he was damn sure he was her only friend - and even then they were something more at the same time- though she tried to hide and ignore it most of the time. She heard him walk around the couch to tower over her with perfect calm aura that pissed her off like no tomorrow.

"Hert luchnika Statuya blokirovaniye solnechnogo sveta. (_God damn archer statue blocking the sunlight)_," she muttered in Russian under her breath. Clint merely raised an eyebrow.

It was 9 in the evening and pitch black outside.

Clearly she wasn't putting in a lot of effort to insult him like usual today. She was usually so creative with her death threats.

"You know I heard that right?" he said with barely concealed amusement. He could practically _see_ the feathers get ruffled on her back.

"With your big head I wouldn't be surprised if your ears could hear the pathetic mutterings of an _ant_," she mumbled irritably as she buried her face in her pillow and continued to consciously take up all the space on their couch so he had nowhere to sit.

Moments later he started taping his foot on the ground and crossed his arms.

She still stubbornly refused to acknowledge even after they spent the entire day training pain in their ass junior agents.

He finally sighed - she was being childish.

"_Tasha_," he said in a knowing tone.

"Piss off, Barton and let me lie here for eternity if I feel like it - I don't need your annoying presence right now," she said grumpily. Clint was about to open him mouth and offer a quick sharp retort when her stomach interrupted his moment.

_GRRRRUMBLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE._

She froze in horror.

He blinked.

"Your stomach quite clearly disagrees with that plan of yours, Tasha," Clint said with a smug smirk spreading across his rugged face. Natasha's head finally lifted itself off the pillow to duck her chin below her shoulders and shot a burning glare at her torso.

"Traitorous _fiend_," she hissed as her betraying body part.

Clint promptly schooled his face and had to draw on his sniper skills not to burst out laughing at her antics right on the spot - the Widow off mission was like free crack entertainment.

"Now, don't blame the poor stomach for _all_ your problems," he said dryly. _Some of them you create all on your own. _Like how they were on probation in the first place. She suddenly muttered something he _swore_ sounded like _pig in heat_ in Swahili.

He decided for once not to go there.

He did _not_ eat like a pig.

"Do we have any food left?" she asked suddenly with highly suspicious eyes. Clint stuffed his hands into his pockets and grinned too widely. All the packaged food has mysteriously disappeared faster than they could replenish.

He would admit nothing.

"_Nope_," he said with unabashed _glee_. Their fridge was a horror scene in the making and he had no desire to open that can of worms right now (there might _actually_ be worms in there). Natasha's face went right back to banging against the edge of the couch.

"Damn _useless_ partner," she grumbled as she turned away from him. Clint ignored her tone and carried on.

"Are you going to stop hogging the couch any time soon?" he asked simply. He kind of liked the ugly green couch - it had nothing to do with the number of warm memories of her he had attached to it. Natasha stuck her nose in the air in clear conceited Russian superiority.

She was laying it on thick today.

"Nope," she said sarcastically copying him just to piss him off. Clint shrugged nonchalantly which immediately threw her off. Her eyes flashed with momentary confusion - he wasn't supposed to react like that.

"Suit yourself," he said casually before he turned around in what looked like him accepting defeat - until he promptly took a step backwards and sat on her.

Natasha froze as she sunk into couch.

It's not that she can't hold his weight (even though god knows Barton weighted a ton) - it's the fact that he had the actual nerve to _sit on her_.

The obnoxious American was sitting on the most dangerous Russian assassins in the _world_.

_How dare he? _

"_Barton_," she seethed as she started to shake with restrained anger as her hands curled into small tight balls of fiery.

"Yeah, Tasha?" he asked serenely like there was nothing dangerously wrong with this scenario.

"You have 5 _seconds _to remove yourself and start running for your life before I _shoot_ you," she said warningly. A dangerous smirk settled over his expression.

"_Make me_," he said daringly even if he knew exactly what was coming.

The next thing he knew he was being roughly knocked over by a wave of force and shoved back into the couch with a fuming Russian pinning him with something half way between murderous and maiming intent flashing her eyes.

It was far sexier than it should be.

"So you _do_ have some fight left in you after an entire day of dragging juniors through combat scenarios," he said smugly, completely disregarding the perilous hand clutching his throat.

Natasha narrowed her eyes and dangerously tightened her death grip on his neck.

"I am going to _kick_ your smug little American ass all the way back to god damn Ber-" she started to growl threateningly until…

_GRUMBLEEEEEEEEEE_.

…ruined the effect.

Clint laughed in her _face_.

"Stop _laughing_!" she demanded in outrage as her angry expression radiated her sheer embarrassment of the highest degree.

"Your empty stomach killed your death threat!" he gasped in utter stitches of laughter all at her expense.

"I can still _beat_ the crap out of you!" she growled in outrage. Clint snorted as he continued to laugh his heart out - especially at the frustrated look on her face.

As _if_ that meant anything to him. They both knew she was the far better hand to hand combat fighter.

"Who cares? No fat ass evil rich guy would take you seriously if your stomach grumbled while you had him at gun point, Romanoff - let alone sitting on him!" he said between gasps of a precious few breaths.

"Oh of the love of god you're unbelievable!" she exclaimed in disgust as she promptly dropped her threatening hold on his neck and gave up on trying to beat him to a pulp - he'd probably just laugh through the beating anyway like the insane psycho he was.

The next thing she knew the room was sharply spinning across her vision as she got flipped out her back and had her wrists pinned over her head in a criss-cross hold she knew she couldn't break without break his hands in the process.

The grinning bastard knew it too - that's why he did it.

"Wanna have dinner now?" he asked cheekily as he just held her wrists tighter even as she angrily yanked on it a clear message to let go.

"Depends on if you want to still be able to fire arrows with your arms, Clint," she said warningly as she flipped her wrists to grab onto his own and squeezed in an uncomfortable manner to make her point. Clint simply grinned through the slight increasing pain until he finally released her.

"How about a chees-" he started to say as he dropped his hands to rest on her hips but her utter distaste was _audible_.

"_Ugh_!" she said in disgust before he even finished his sentence. Clint sighed and pulled back to lean on the back of the couch and dragged her into a sitting position along with him.

She was so _picky_.

"How about pizz-" he tried again but was met with the same response.

"_Clint_," she said in near exasperation.

Yeah, he knew they had that for the last 2 days in a row.

"Is all fast food going to be a no with you today?" he asked warily. Natasha's scrunched up nose said it all.

"Someone please shoot me now," she muttered under her breath. Clint sighed.

"Tasha if you're going to shoot down all our options we're both going to bed starving," he said pointedly rubbing his wrists because she had a nasty grip that really drove her point home a bit too well.

"I'm sick of American food," Natasha grumbled as she looked away. Clint paused and gave her a questioning look.

"Is the Black Widow _whining_?" Clint asked curiously. She was so fast he didn't even see her take out of her gun from wherever on her body she hid it this time (likely in a thigh holster stitched into the inside of her training cargo pants) and held it dangerous close to one of the most important parts of his body - second most important after his eyes.

He deserved points for not breaking into a sweat when the Black Widow had a firearm pointed to his manly bits. Natasha narrowed her eyes.

"I don't whine - I merely voice my displeasure about being forced to eat the same damn food every single fucking day we're off mission," she said in a disturbingly sweet voice as she brought her finger dangerously close to the trigger.

Clint took it better than most.

"Really? This again? Do you have something against Barton junior or something?" he asked staring at her gun in disbelief. Natasha merely gave him a long look.

"The way I remember this the last time you were nearly _asking_ for me to blow your balls off. Do you not understand what leave me alone means?" she asked warily. Clint sniffed in an highly undignified manner.

He did _not_ appreciate repeatedly having his balls held at gunpoint thank you very much.

"Okay, maybe that time we both needed to cool off. But you can't make any excuse about that time when you nearly lit Barton junior on _fire_ when we were captured by Castro and stranded on that damn island in the Caribbean," Clint said darkly. Natasha flicked her hair over her shoulder like he didn't just accuse her of trying to use a emergency match to accidentally light him on fire and shrugged.

"At least I took out the flames before you a become roasted hawk," she said plainly as she avoided eye contact. Clint scowled at her.

"You threw me to the ground and stomped on me," he said darkly. Natasha snorted.

"And yet here you are still alive and functioning - probably," she said warily glancing at his pants with a mild look of disinterest. Clint paused with his mouth hanging open ready for a sarcastic come back when he saw her wandering eyes.

"Did you just check me out?" he asked incredulously. Natasha scoffed.

"No," she said as her face went deceptively blank. Clint smirked evilly.

"You _did_," he said in sly triumph. Natasha narrowed her eyes.

"Barton," she said with a warning tone. Clint just grinned smugly and gave her the _annoying_ suggestive eyebrows she hasn't seen in months - not since before Italy.

"Face it. You know you fantasize about him," he said in a singsong voice. The next thing he saw was Natasha's narrowed eyes suspiciously melt into a blank expression he was coming far too familiar with.

"Why do men talk about their penis' like it's another entity with a mind of its own?" she asked a bit too straightforwardly not to be on purpose.

Clint just stared at her.

_Cricket…cricket…cricket…_

"You know if I didn't know you are currently shitting with me and that you are one of the world's best manipulation experts I'd say you have terrible people skills and couldn't be subtle if your life depended on it," he said point blank. Natasha rolled her eyes.

Smart agent in the field - annoying smartass cockroach at home.

"You're just sore that I successfully injured and insulted your manhood," she said flippantly. Clint sniffed.

"You know what? I'm done here," he said pushing against his knees and standing up with a scowl that wasn't quite real or matching his attempt to storm away.

He glanced at her for a second but all she did was lean back against the couch and give him a challenging look that said - _are you going to keep walking or what hot shot?_

He huffed before he stubbornly stormed away like an offended little girl.

Where is your legendary patience _now_ Hawkeye?

Somewhere back where they left their stiff professionalism and somehow reverted to petty bickering children.

"Does this mean I can order whatever I want from this thing?" she called out from behind him as she pointed to the New York phonebook sitting on the coffee table in front of her.

"Do whatever you want Commie freak!" he shouted over his shoulder before he audibly slammed the bedroom door behind him in response to his theatrical anger.

She gave him 3 seconds to figure it out on his own before she rubbed it in for him.

She's always going to win this pissing contests them had.

"You're in my room you know," she called out casually as she picked up his cell phone off the counter and started flipping through the pages in the phonebook as she looked for a restaurant name that didn't look too unappealing.

She smirked silently to herself as she started dialing a number on his cell.

She knew for a fact he was cursing like a sailor behind the door.

What she didn't know is when everything turned into a game for them off mission.

But for some reason she kind of enjoyed every ridiculous second of it.

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**A/N: Damn I miss fluff - just a tiny smidge. I like the angst in I dare you too much to stop the suspense in that story but hey look? Somewhere in time Clintasha was happy! **

**Now. What the hell is she going to order in retaliation? **

**Honestly - master assassin pissing contests are hilarious. **


End file.
